At the end of the day, it’s over. But when things are over, they tend to begin again.
I’m looking out the window right now and I can see Edmonton stretching for miles and miles across the sky. Last year at this time, I was at my lowest and I thought that I’d no longer be here at this point; either that, or I would be planning on leaving very soon. But dreams change, and here I am, mildly happy to be staying here for as long as I need to get a bachelor of social work and enter this wonderful, prosperous field that I think will inevitably set me free of worrying what my future will hold in terms of rigidity. My dream of grad school and writing and all of this rosy happiness that I thought might occur when I got into grad school and moved to Vancouver and purused my dreams of being a writer is over too.
Did I give up? I never wanted to give up. I wanted to pursue that dream to its very bitter end, no matter how inevitable that would have been. I wanted to move to a new place and just write and write and write. Because writing is the fundamental basis of my soul; it’s how I met my wonderful friends, how I learned how to be a normal person, how I learned how to be a NON-normal person, how I learned to purge myself of certain ugly truths about myself, how I learned to be someone who’s sitting here, writing a blog, un-concerned about who reads it or what they might think of it, despite that I don’t want to come across as a pretentious little fuck. It’s always been writing. Writing is who I’ve been since my second year. And giving up on that in favour of stability is… rather sad, really.
But I’m not REALLY giving it up, am I? By being practical, does one necessarily throw in the towel on their irrational dreams?
Someone once told me to NEVER, EVER, EVER GIVE UP. And I did. I failed that person, and I failed my 2007 self. But I won’t fail this self that exists now. I won’t. No matter what! I’ll make promises to myself now, and keep them forever. No matter what that means to my past or future embodiments.